“We know where you live, Dr. Ford. That’s exactly how it sounds.”
“That brings us to a worst-case scenario. If you refuse, let’s say someone has harvested data from the stealth drives. Every name, every government official, involved with your business will be made public. How many countries do you operate in?”
There was a long gambler’s pause. “If such names exist.”
“If,” Ford said.
“You could go ahead and do that anyway. What sort of guarantee do I have?”
“Only one that I know of. Hands off Gillian Cobourg and her family, or I’ll come looking for you myself.”
“Such a violent man. Her brother’s a pompous fool, and his government’s about to fall anyway. In other words, his value is no longer—”
Ford interrupted. “Look, I have a plane waiting to fly Donell to Andros. Do you want the drives or not?”
Less than an hour later, the satellite phone pinged with confirmation: Information received.
The turbo Cessna took off into a dark June morning. The pilot, Charles Beckett, from a family forever loyal to the British Crown, wagged his wings in salute, then banked east, flying low over the trees.
Ford didn’t notice. He was puzzled by what he saw on his own satellite phone. It was a real-time Keyhole view of Hannah’s SUV from a mile overhead. She had stopped on a lonely stretch of the Tamiami Trail ten miles away, car doors open, the headlights bright enough to cast two giant shadows on the gray canvas that was the road.
Why had she stopped? Who was the second person?
He rushed to his truck, hoping to intercept the woman. On the way, he called from his cell. Voice mail. An instant later, his phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Hannah?”
No, it was Detective Janos Werner. “Sorry to call so early but I can’t get ahold of the Barlow girl and figured you might have some numbers for me to try. She’s probably not in danger, but, personally, I think she should know.”
“What’s wrong?” Ford listened a while before he said, “Jesus Christ . . . escaped from where?”
26
Tomlinson recognized the SUV that stopped for him out here in the middle of nowhere. A Captiva Guides Association sticker confirmed he was right. But it wasn’t Hannah Smith who got out and called, “Need a ride?”
He recognized the bearish baritone, too. The combination jolted his resolve. Death was in that voice, horrors inflicted century after century. The temptation was to flee, not face the enemy he had called down from the stars.
“I’d say yes even if I was wearing shoes,” he hollered back in a sweet parody of the naïve. “Where you headed?”
The driver opened the passenger door, reached in, and switched off the dome light. “Can’t go nowhere ’til you get your ass in the car. Hurry up.”
In the refracted glare of headlights, Tomlinson got a glimpse of two bodies bundled in the back of the SUV before a massive face loomed over him. Moths, bewildered by the light, feathered the face with scurrying shadows. He took a chance by asking, “How you doing tonight, Vernon?”
The driver said, “Name’s Walter, shit-for-brains,” and that’s the last thing Tomlinson heard before a numbing blow knocked him into semi-consciousness.
—
Mr. Bird was impressed. Never had a victim seen through flesh and bone to perceive the power of Walter’s darkness within. It put him in a redneck party mood. Hungrier than ever.
“How you doin’ back there, ladies? Got us a passenger, we do. Yep, the real McCoy, with the prettiest hair you ever seen. He’s carrying a bag with an old-time pistol in it.”
Gracie was bawling again. “She keeps vomiting. I think she passed out. Tomlinson . . . are you okay?” She’d heard his voice.
“Never mind about him. She breathing?”
“Sorta, but—”
“Then shut the hell up, we got your boyfriend for company.” He reached over, slapped the hipster’s face—not hard—to see if he was playing possum. “What’s your story, bub? Back there at the cabin, you got any idea how close I came to dousing your lights? Good thing I saw that wheel gun in your hand. Colt Peacemaker, ain’t it?”
Tomlinson had been listening for a while, aware that Hannah was behind him, tied up or unconscious, Gracie was alive, and near hysterics. They were headed for the foundry, probably, or Chino Hole. It was time to do something; fight or get off the pot. He sat straighter, wiped blood from his nose, and said, “You tell me.”
Gracie cried out, “Tommy, get help, run!”
“Keep your mouth closed, girl, we’re talking.” The driver glanced over. “Tell you about what?”
“Albert Barlow’s gun. I found it in the cabin after you took off with my van. You missed some of the good stuff, Vernon, when you robbed the place.”
“Walter, or Captain Lambeth,” was the reply. “Say it. Say my name.”
“Look . . . Walter, why not let the girls go? Tell me what you want and—”
“It weren’t Albert’s gun. Here”—he lifted the Colt by the barrel and held it near the dash—“see the initials? A tinhorn deputy named Johnny Cox carried this until he was bullwhipped ’til he cried. Him and his wife and brats all there, watching. Albert didn’t have the stomach for such things, so he run like a rabbit—but only after stealing what he could. This Colt being the best of it, which is why it goes back in the bag for safekeeping.”
Tomlinson said, “August 1925, the Marco Island war.”
Rumbling laughter accompanied, “By god, a man who knows his history. Could be you’re right about those dates.”
“You’re not sure? Walter Lambeth would know exactly when it happened.” Tomlinson waited, but no response. “Tell me something. What’s it like? For you now, I mean. Do you hear voices, or do you really believe that sick sonuvabitch is still in control?”
“Bitch? Pretty strong word for someone not fit to judge pigs.”
“He was a monster and you know it.”
Vernon’s head pivoted as if on a turret. He was thinking, Finally, some asshole worthy of Mr. Bird’s brand. “August, maybe that was the date. I can sure as hell tell you how the wife and her brats died. Albert told ’em some lie about leaving on the train and carried ’em across from Marco on the ferry. You know the area?”
Tomlinson replied, “There’s a lake near here. You . . . he cut their throats and let gators do the rest. No . . . a croc. Or they went into the furnace like he did to his Chinese workers. Which was it?”
Amazing, this skinny old hippie. Vernon said, “Ain’t you the cat’s whiskers? Whoops—hang on to your seat.” He turned onto a rutted road that was familiar, the foundry and Chino Hole not far ahead. “What happened was, the Chinamen, burning their bodies and all, that came later, after . . . Well, it was what Walter did to the woman that night that made him different. At the time, deputy’s wife, she was—”
Tomlinson interrupted before he got out the word: pregnant. “I know the rest. If Walter was proud of something like that, he deserves to burn in Hell. What, you’re his son, his grandson? Maybe you listened to those stories at Grandpa’s knee, but why do the same sad, sick shit over and over again?”
Vernon looked over and grinned. “Keep doing it ’til you get it right. It’s something he used to say. Drive a stake through his heart, turn him into gator shit, that’s what it would take.”
“Take to kill him?”
“He said that, too. The man had a way of laying eggs in your head that hatched. You didn’t know ol’ Walter.”
“I’m not so sure,” Tomlinson said, his attention on the Colt Peacemaker, which was in the bag on the floor, driver’s side. Mounted on the dash was his own damn cell phone, a GPS map aglow. Two more phones were on the console, one of them probably Hannah’s. Atop a clutter of boating gear was a ceramic opium pipe that explained the stink of chlorine. “Wh
at’re you smoking?”
The driver’s eyes sparked. “Oh, something real special.” Steering with his knees, he filled the pipe with crystal, lit it, puffed, exhaled. “Or do you like whiskey? I got a stash hid away near here.”
“Both,” Tomlinson said, and took the pipe. Smoking was an excuse to sit back, relax, and drape one arm over the seat. His fingers found Hannah’s hair, warm skin . . . no movement. Crusted blood, a slick area—dear god, maybe she was dead. He inhaled, coughed a cloud of smoke, and kept coughing. Acidic sparks assaulted his frontal lobe. The sparks burrowed and traced a delicate veinery through his head into the cortex mass.
“It ain’t smooth, but she gets the job done.” Vernon grinned while Mr. Bird observed and considered options.
“Flakka?” Tomlinson sputtered.
“Bath salts plus a touch of flake—my version of what they called Mangrove Lightning.”
“What he called it, and this sure as hell isn’t whiskey.”
“It’s better, way better. Pure flakka don’t hold a candle. Take another hit, but don’t hog it all.”
Tomlinson did. Tears flowed. His brain ballooned with a delicious, hellish heat. One more yank for good measure. “Wowie, Lord,” he muttered. “After a couple hits—is that when you hear his voice?”
“Whose? Oh, him. Yeah, Walter loves this shit, which, I admit, sort of confuses me sometimes as to who gives the orders. You know? Hey . . . careful, slick.” Tomlinson had intentionally fumbled the pipe during the exchange. Vernon retrieved it and used the lighter again, puffing hard, aware of what had almost happened. When the smoke cleared, both phones were gone from the console, but the bag was still there on the floor.
Tomlinson pretended not to notice. Waited for his turn with the pipe, and double-pumped the next hit to show good faith. His senses blazed with a feeling so raw, it couldn’t be defined. Nor could it be slowed. It was an expanding euphoric need, like hunger, but with a seething edge.
A third, then a fourth hit, breathing the smoke deep, brought understanding. Rage, he realized. A teetering madness was flooding in behind his eyes. He battled for control, using mental tricks learned from bad L.S.D. This shit was nasty.
Voice lower, he handed the pipe back, saying, “Slow down, dumbass, I want to savor this.”
“Dumbass?” More rumbling laughter—ha-ha-ha. “Hey, boy, that there sounded like something the old man would say. You trying to piss me off?”
“No, I’m trying to picture the way it was back in the day.”
Vernon glared, while Mr. Bird whispered, Do what he says. We’ll put him in the pond.
The glare faded. “Enjoy the view, makes sense. Another bowl, this whole place will come alive. Horses, a bunch of chinks lined up with their coolie caps and ribs showing. The six a.m. from Immokalee’s due about now. I love hearing that train whistle.”
Tomlinson, his arm draped over the seat, fingers stroking an unresponsive Hannah, nodded. “Thought you might.”
Streaming toward them through the windshield, the first gray rim of morning showed a roofline through the trees where sparks spiraled skyward. A chimney.
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh, my ass. Pass the pipe, slick.”
“Are you blind? Your house is on fire. Either that or someone’s there.”
“Naw, it’s the crystal kicking in. You know how to stoke a furnace? That’s where we’re headed. There’s a special room with ankle chains for the females. What do you think—chain ’em, have some fun?” Vernon, channeling Mr. Bird, watched closely as he added, “It’s what some would call a permanent commitment.”
Tomlinson reemerged from a secret haven in his head and made eye contact. “The way I feel, I’d chew your leg off and pretend you don’t have balls.”
“My leg, huh? Whoo-ee, I like the way you think. Want a taste of those two, do you?”
“If it’s just you and me, I’m about two hits past overdue. Immortal blood lust and cannibalism, oh hell yes. If you want me to say it, I will—I’m ready for the mark of Demon Crow.” He spoke as if in a daze, then appeared to awaken. “Hey—why are we stopping?”
“Hop out. There’s something I want you to see.”
Vernon’s voice had changed. Tomlinson wasn’t happy with the timing, but he had to do something because the drug was winning control. He pointed vaguely. “Over there? Looks like a cop.”
When the driver turned, he lunged and grabbed the bag. Shit, no weight to it at all. When he looked up, there it was in the dome light, the long-barreled Colt aimed at his face.
“Get out of the goddamn car or I’ll shoot you where you sit. Hell . . . I’ll do it anyway just for lying.”
Click-click—the sound of a hammer ratcheting. Tomlinson threw up a hand, opened the door with the other, and rolled away from a deafening blast.
In his mind, a voice called after him: If you run, he will catch you.
—
Gracie could only lie there, listening. A single gunshot . . . a yowl of pain, a slamming car door, then the panicky sound of men wrestling in the brush, or running away.
“Hannah, wake up . . . Come on, you’ve got to help me.”
The woman stirred. She exhaled, a moaning sound, while her feet and arms twitched, not unlike a dog running from a dream.
Blessedly, the dome light blinked off. It had been painful to look at the woman’s damaged face.
“Can you hear me? Nod if you understand.”
A slight nod in the darkness. Or was it imagined?
Gracie had nearly chewed Hannah’s wrists free but another bout of vomiting had interrupted. That was many minutes ago. Since then, the girl had worked desperately to free her own hands, but quietly. Not now. She pulled her knees to her chest, got one bare foot between her wrists, and used leg strength to push. The damn tape stretched . . . stretched a little more, which gave her hands room to move, but it wouldn’t break.
Exhausted, she scooted closer and nudged the woman. “For god’s sake, wake up. I need the gun. Where’d you hide it?”
The lashes of Hannah’s right eye might have fluttered.
“Oh thank god . . . you can hear me. Pull your hands apart . . . You can do it, I promise. The tape was about to break when you got sick again.”
BOOM. A second shot, not far away, interrupted.
“Oh shit, honey, he’ll be back soon.”
Gracie contorted herself until both feet were between her wrists, then extended her legs as if trying to lift a massive weight. The tape refused to break, but it stretched enough so she could thread one foot through, then the other, as if stepping through a rope.
Finally, her hands were in front of her. In a frenzy, she freed her ankles, and was gnawing at her wrists, when she realized it was more important to have the gun. “Hannah, I need to roll you over. You gotta help me . . . Honey, try to move your arms. You’re too big for me to move by myself.”
She lifted the woman’s shoulder and struggled to roll her on her side. Hannah coughed, babbled something, and began to struggle, still dreaming. The thread of tape on her wrists must have parted because one elbow went limp. The momentum rolled her onto her back again.
Gracie, in tears, was yelling encouragement when, through the rear window, she saw movement beneath a channel of stars that marked the road. A silhouette . . . someone large . . . a man, possibly . . . approaching, moving slowly toward the dark SUV.
“Oh god . . . it’s him.” She crouched low, her forehead against the glass. “He’s coming . . . The gun . . . I need the goddamn gun. Or . . . wait. Where’d he go?”
The man, if it was a man, had vanished. The girl spun around, aware of what would happen next. He would do what he’d done before, shock them from an unexpected direction, drag them out of the car, and . . .
“Hannah . . . I’ve got to get help. Please wake up or I’ll have to . . .” She hugge
d the woman’s leg and shook it. “I’m so sorry!”
Gracie scrambled over the driver’s seat, cracked the door enough to slide out, and used her hip to close it quietly. Screaming insects dominated the darkness, where, among trees on the opposite side of the car, movement again caught her eye. A shadowed form appeared . . . shoulders . . . a human head that caught the breeze like moss . . . and vanished.
She set off through the woods in the opposite direction, walking . . . walking faster. Behind her, bushes rustled. She began to jog toward what she hoped was the main road, then sprinted blindly when a branch behind her shattered beneath a terrifying weight. The ground was soft. A maze of protruding cypress knees offered a clearing in the distance. She tripped and broke her fall, hands taped, outstretched, then was on her feet again, splashing through a pocket of swamp. Remnants of a rock wall nearly tripped her again. On one knee, she paused to listen. Tunneling toward her from the darkness came the sound of heavy feet in slow pursuit.
Oh dear god.
To her left, visible through the trees, was an elevated area of straight lines and rectangles. She knew it was a jumble of abandoned railroad cars. Ahead, to the right, a silver sheen marked the pond. On the other side, hidden from sight, was the hellish building she’d been held captive, but the main road was there, too.
The girl, duty-bound to the child within her, made a bold choice. She went toward the water, careful about the footing. The ground was muck pocked with limestone pools, some knee-deep. She was wading the rim of the pond, when a sudden breeze seemed to whisper, Gracie . . .
An echoing quality suggested the wind had filtered up through striations in a nearby ledge.
She stopped, aware of an unseen danger, then screamed when a massive hand grabbed her ankle from below.
27
Mr. Bird, before taking flight, had advised Walter Lambeth, Prepare to die.
That’s what he longed for: ol’ Walter and his kin, the idiot sons and half-breed daughters who carried his mark, to vanish from the present so they would no longer stain the past.
Mangrove Lightning Page 24